


Sonar Bat Screeches and Olive Perfume

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Humanstuck, POV Neophyte Redglare, sfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:46:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5324459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The opposing attorney, that is, the lawyer of the person that your client is suing, is smiling at you. And it’s not like your habitual intimidating grin either, or an adrenalin rush fueled smile of excitement, or even a smug smirk, thinking that she’s going to win. She is, to be perfectly honest, smiling very sweetly at you. You can hear it in her voice. Odd. (Interesting.)</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Miss Pyrope and Miss Leijon play a game.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonar Bat Screeches and Olive Perfume

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DetectiveRoboRyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/gifts).



> The kind Cobalt_Sniper was my beta for this gift.

The opposing attorney, that is, the lawyer of the person that _your_ client is suing, is smiling at you. And it’s not like your habitual intimidating grin either, or an adrenalin rush fueled smile of excitement, or even a smug smirk, thinking that she’s going to win. She is, to be perfectly honest, smiling very sweetly at you. You can hear it in her voice. Odd. (Interesting.)

You try and coax the memory of her name back up from the depths of your memories, discarded earlier as obviously insignificant. Something Leijon, you believe.

You make sure to say her name the next time it’s your turn, addressing her, pointed. ‘Miss Leijon’. You certainly never forgot it! No ma’am!

The two of you trade turns back and forth, like chess, like a game, and for once the game is satisfyingly more than just a one sided curb stomp. She has near encyclopedic knowledge of the law and case, has a sterling reputation apparently, and is a wonder with the dramatic speeches. But she is no match for you! You’re insidious with your words, misdirecting and cunning, laying traps and accusing. You aren’t afraid of fighting dirty, as far as that is allowed within the law. Her incompetent client and the unwitting witnesses are putty in your hands, the jury your receptive audience, and the judge a reasonably close friend of yours.

She doesn’t stop smiling at you though, which somehow makes the crushing victory a bit less satisfying! That sly vixen.

People in suits (and one judge in a robe) file out of the court room, and you have to consciously restrain yourself from pouting while you pack up your briefcase.

You whip around however when you feel a breath upon your neck. Whoever it was steps away swiftly, the tap tap of their shoes signifying that they’re almost definitely a female. She lets loose an impish giggle, and the mystery is solved. It is your Miss Leijon.

“Miss Leijon, what a pleasure it is to make your personal acquaintance.” You make sure to grin just right so that you get to show off your unusually sharp canines.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on a case well done,” she says. Her voice is feminine and light, but has a slight sing song to it that makes her sound perpetually playful. She rolls her R’s. (And she smells like a sweet, subtle perfume, olive green in your mind’s eye.)

“Why thank you! So I guess you’re not a sore loser then?” It’s a teasing little jab, but you are curious. You’re certainly tired of messing with people who’ll just kick a big old fuss up about it. It’s better to just have fun! Although it would be nice if she wasn’t completely untouched by your victory either.

“No, of course not. If you lose, you lose. I recommend you keep that in mind for the next time we go up against each other.” And now she smirks, just a little bit, the smugness seeping into her voice like diluted paint in water.

You cackle. “Ooh, I’m shaking in my boots!” You like the confident ones.

“Sarcasm is furry rude! I mean very.” She clears her throat awkwardly and you raise an eyebrow at her. She does not acknowledge it.

“Furry well,” you deliberately, carefully, enunciate. She lets loose an offended little huff. It is adorable. “I don’t think we’ll be playing against each other for a while though. Arranging for us to specifically serve opposing clients wouldn't exactly be simple.”

She spends a moment doing what you are almost certain is pouting, before she speaks, her tone bright with a clever idea. “Then I suppose we will have to enter a difurr—different battlefield!”

You didn’t miss that pun, and you’ll definitely hang it over her head later. But for now…

“Oh?” You admit, but only to yourself, that you’re intrigued by what she's apparently proposing.

“Perhaps chess? You can grope the pieces if you ever lose track,” she says.

You blink, cackle, and then screw your face up into an overly condescending smile. “I’ll have you know that I practically have a sonar radar in my head, much like a bat. Groping will not be necessary—although certainly not forbidden.” You waggle your eyebrows suggestively.

You wish you could know whether she was blushing or not. Bah, who are you kidding! Of course she’s blushing. You’re a Casanova, it is you.

“Does that mean that you will periodically screech whenever I move a piece?” she immediately retorts, quick on the draw and apparently unflustered. Merely an excellent poker face, you are sure!

“Absolutely.” You solemnly nod, face grave.

“Oh, wait, that’s what those noises earlier were! Sorry, I thought you were laughing.” She delivers the line with straight faced precision, completely serious on the surface.

You gape at her for a moment, before breaking out into more of your ‘screeches’. You walked straight into that one!

“P—point to you, Leijon,” you gasp. “I guess that makes us even now.”

“Maybe you’ll regain your lead after our chess match. This Friday, perhaps?” Leijon asks.

“Ooh, you silver-tongued charmer, you. My place or yours?” you ask.

“Do you have a chess set?” she asks.

(Wait)

“Yes,” you immediately shoot off without hesitation.

(What)

“Great! I’ll look forward to trouncing you,” she replies cheerily.

(Oh god)

And then she rattles off her number at you, which you memorize by force of habit of not normally having an easy and quick way to write things down for later.

(OH GOD)

She prances off, her footsteps definitely with an added spring to it, and the doors close behind her with a thud. You are left standing there alone in shocked silence.

( _oh nooooo_ )

She was, you realize with belated horror, one hundred percent sincere. Zero innuendo intended. She wants to sit across from you as you move black and white pieces onto different squares on a board game.

You.

You are going to have to learn how to play chess before Friday. And buy a chess set.

It looks like the current count is 2-1 in her favor.

(You are absolutely, strangely, smitten.)


End file.
